When the young Esquimau began to recover from the lethargic state into
which his wound had thrown him, he found himself lying at the bottom of
the women's oomiak with his old grandfather by his side, and a noisy
crew of children and dogs around him. Raising himself on his elbow, he
brushed the clotted blood and hair from his temples, and endeavoured to
recall his scattered faculties. Seeing this, the old crone who had
saved his life laid down her paddle and handed him a sealskin cup of
water, which he seized and drank with avidity. Fortunately the wound on
his forehead, although it had stunned him severely at first, was
trifling, and in a few minutes after partaking of the cool water, he
recovered sufficiently to sit up and look around him.
Gradually his faculties returned, and he started up with a troubled
look.
"Where are the Allat? Where is my wife?" he exclaimed vehemently, as
his eye fell on the prostrate form of his still insensible grandfather.
"Gone," answered several of the women.
"Gone!" repeated the youth, gazing wildly among the faces around him in
search of that of his wife. "Gone! Tell me, is she in one of the other
oomiaks?"